


Break, Blow, Burn, and Make Me New

by MlleClaudine



Series: Cophine [6]
Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Angst, Awkward Romance, Canon Compliant, Canon Expansion, F/F, Fisting, Gen, Makeup Sex, Mild Sensation Play, Miscommunication, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, a little weed never hurt anyone m'kay?, because having sex with someone you love while you're both stoned is f'ing amazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-14 11:47:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5742661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleClaudine/pseuds/MlleClaudine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aftermath of the fight in s02e07, when Cosima finds out that Delphine has knowingly used Kira's stem cells in her treatment. Takes place starting shortly after their first confrontation in s02e08. Keeping this one mostly T-rated, though there will be one M-rated chapter at the end. Feedback as always is greatly appreciated!</p><p>Visit my silly Tumblr thingie over at <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mlleclaudine">https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mlleclaudine</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Time! Weapon down!"

Flicking on the safety, which engages with its usual satisfying _snick_ , I place the little Sig on the padded bench top, slide locked open and muzzle pointed downrange. The lights come up fully from their dimmed setting as the air cleaning system vents the artificial smoke from the lane, allowing me to clearly see my targets as they glide toward me on their motorized tracks.

Diana whistles. "Remind me not to get you mad at me, Doc. Not bad, not bad at all."

Deliberately taking deep breaths to calm myself down, the sharp, strangely pleasing smell of burnt gunpowder prickles my sinuses and the back of my throat. Noting that we have the range to ourselves, I pull off my earmuffs and remove my protective glasses, wiping the condensation from the edges of the lenses as I lean forward to inspect my shot placements; next to me, Diana does the same. On two of the targets, most of the holes are concentrated in a roughly grapefruit-sized cluster in the middle of the torso of each silhouette; however, on the third, the one farthest to the left that had approached quickly at the last second, the shots are widely scattered. "Jerking the trigger and swinging in too wide an arc of movement," I say, frowning at the randomness of the pattern.

"That's exactly right. Most shooting encounters take place at less than twenty feet; at that distance, if your sight alignment is off by even 1/16th of an inch, your POI will be off by a full four and a half inches. But for the most part you're controlling the muzzle flip really well, which is hard to do with such a light, short-barreled pistol. And see, even if they're offline you still managed to get most of your shots center mass — this guy might not go down immediately but you've certainly spoiled his day. We'll continue to work on rapid target acquisition in different scenarios for the next few weeks. In the meantime, I want you to practice dry-firing while focusing _only_ on front sight alignment. Concentrate on keeping your breath even and your movements small and smooth. No yanking at the trigger; the penny drill should help you a lot with that."

I nod, wiping gunpowder residue and fingerprints off the slide and frame before zipping the Sig into its rug and putting it into my range bag along with my earmuffs, glasses and what's left of my plinking ammo.

"And keep working on mag drops and reloads. You're getting better at moving more efficiently, but you know, it actually is okay if your mags hit the floor every once in a while. Real shooting situations are messy and chaotic — the bad guys aren't going to give you time to square everything away just so."

Looking down at the row of empty magazines lined up neatly on the bench, I smile slightly. "I guess I'm a bit OCD about some things." I tuck the mags into their slots on the front of my bag.

"Where's your girlfriend today?' Diana asks casually, unclipping the targets from their frames and tossing them into the recycling bin.

A pang grips my chest at the memory of Cosima, just a week ago, her arms crossed, expression like a small thundercloud as she had closely observed my every interaction with Diana throughout my lesson. And then made good on her promise to claim her territory in front of all and sundry. "She's... busy."

"Too bad. She's cute."

She's an impossibly stubborn, unreasonable, ungrateful, illogical little _shit_. _Out. This is my lab. **My** body. **I'm** the science. Get out!_ "Yes, she is."

"And intense. I'll bet she can be pretty intimidating, for someone that tiny."

I can feel my face flushing, the bewildered miasma of disbelief and hurt and anger still just as galling as it had been this morning at her childish, self-satisfied spite in informing me that she had blocked my passcard access. _I just really don't want you here._

"Doc? You okay?"

I shake my head to clear it. "I'm sorry, I, euh, zoned out for a second. What were you saying?"

"Nothing much, only that you should ask her to join you for your lessons. If she works as late as you do, she really needs to think about being able to protect herself."

"I suggested it, but she said the only thing she was interested in shooting was 'Plants Vs. Zombies' on her PS4."

Laugh lines crinkle around Diana's deep-set eyes and stern mouth, softening the hard planes of her face, which still bears traces of sun damage sustained during her posting in Qatar years ago. "Well, if she ever changes her mind, tell her I said that most video gamers have superb hand-eye coordination and tend to be excellent shots."

"Yes, try to get her to change her mind about anything," I mutter under my breath.

"If you want to leave the Sig for a while, I'd be happy to clean it for you. I could bring it by your office after I get off work."

I deliberately fail to notice the obvious overture. "Thank you, Diana, but I should really spend some time getting more familiar with taking care of it myself. I did want to ask you something." She raises her eyebrows. "I looked it up. Concealed carry is illegal in Canada, isn't it?"

"It is." Narrow lips purse into a wry smile. "But I'd rather that you be around to deal with the consequences than the alternative. And if I do my job properly, no one will be able to tell that you're carrying. Do you have a problem with that?"

Considering the surreptitious murmurs that run rampant through Dyad, about specialists and directors and high-ranking executives who were abruptly replaced, or who simply disappeared and were subsequently never heard from again, I think _consequences_ are infinitely preferable to the alternative. "I can live with it."

"That's the whole point, isn't it? All right, Doc, I'll see you next week." As she has at the end of every lesson, she shakes my hand, her palm rough and calloused against mine. It's a reassuringly capable hand; and as before, I can't help noticing the splendid definition of her forearm and the biceps that admirably fill out the sleeves of her black polo shirt.

"Next week, yes, at the usual time, unless something comes up. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me early today."

"No problem." Wide dark brown eyes regard me keenly. "You look like you're feeling a little calmer now. When you first got here I could almost see steam coming out of your ears."

"I've been, ah, under a lot of stress lately. Some of my... colleagues are being difficult."

"Just be glad that you have the opportunity to beat the crap out of a piece of paper — has a lot fewer complications than taking it out on the people who've pissed you off. Although for an exercise like this, it's actually not a bad thing to learn how to control your shooting when your adrenaline is pumping."

I wave goodbye and head for the exit. As I push through the airlock doors, I pass a tall broad-shouldered crewcut man on his way in to the range. "Afternoon, Gunny," I hear him say to Diana, before the heavy doors whisper shut.

In the elevator, I nod at passing acquaintances and chat briefly with Silvio, one of the friendlier security guards; we're not really supposed to talk with them, but I've seen him nearly every day since I started working here and it would be rude not to respond. Examining the gunpowder residue staining my fingers, I entertain the cynical thought that Dyad's encouragement of its employees to learn to arm themselves might be their way of giving their potential targets a sporting chance.

Could I really shoot someone, even in self defense? If Diana is to be believed, and I have no reason to suspect otherwise, I am rapidly becoming a proficient shot. But it is one thing to be good at putting holes in paper; it's quite another to use that skill to intentionally put those holes into a human being. The underlying principle of _Primum non nocere_ had been pounded into me from the first day of med school. But the very fact that I own a weapon and have been training rather intensively in its intended use would seem to indicate that I am at least considering making that leap across a yawning chasm of uncertainty.

So much deadly potential in such a small object.

Reaching my office at last, I listen to my voicemails while field-stripping and cleaning the little gun at my desk. Rather than regarding it as a chore, I have found that I actually enjoy the process of scrubbing grime off each precision-machined part, then wiping it with a cloth lightly dampened with FrogLube to leave behind only the barest film of the minty-smelling fluid on the gleaming metal.

Most of the messages have to do with routine administrative business: updates on pending test results, background check reports on potential candidates for hire, reminders about upcoming staff meetings. There is a call from Sophie, an unexpected pleasure. _"Toi, t'es une sacrée emmerdeuse. J'espère que le manque de nouvelles signifie que tu te fais enfin drôlement sauter. Donnes moi un coup de fil à un de ces quat', OK?"_

Hearing my best friend's voice makes me laugh with delight, though it's a nagging reminder that I haven't been entirely candid with my family and friends about certain recent events.

A knock on my door startles me just as I finish reassembling and sparingly lubing the Sig. My heart leaps, but I tamp down the flare of irrational hope. "Come in."

Samantha pokes her head in. "Don't shoot!" she says, throwing up her arms in mock surrender when she catches sight of the gun in my hands.

I smile wryly, setting it down and snapping off my nitrile gloves to drop them as well as the sheets of newspaper protecting the top of the desk into the trash. "Don't worry, it's not loaded. Besides, I would much rather shoot your boss. What does Aldous want?"

She makes a face, her animated features at odds with the severe elegance of her tailored suit and sleek thick chestnut hair swept up into its impeccable chignon. "I don't know," she says in her best Received Pronunciation, which always tickles me; after a few beers or glasses of wine, her native Essex accent starts seeping through. "He hasn't been in all day and no one's been able to raise him, which is causing hell's own amount of bother. It's not him, though, it's Miss Duncan. Sorry to disturb you on your lunch break, Delphine, but she wanted me to ask if you would meet her in Dr. Leekie's office at your earliest convenience."

My pulse starts to pound. "Do you have any idea why?"

"I'm just the messenger. Evidently I'm not on the need-to-know list," she says wryly. Peering at me, she tilts her head. "Are you all right? You look a little tense."

I suppress a wave of irritation. "Just tired, I guess. I... didn't sleep very well last night."

"A bunch of us are meeting at Bar Volo later — it's Valerie's birthday. You and Cosima are welcome to join us, if you like."

"Thank you, Samantha, but we may have to, euh, take a rain check."

"Well, the invite's open if you change your mind. Don't leave the Rachel-bot waiting too long, all right?" The door closes softly behind her.

I start to put my gun away but then reconsider. Reaching into my range bag, I pull out the DeSantis holster that Diana had loaned me to practice with and a box of Hornady hollow points. Thumbing six bullets into a flush mag, I chamber a round, drop the mag to top it off, then seat it back into place with a firm slap. The little pistol nestles snugly into the lightly padded nylon sheath. Silently cursing the tight fit of my pants, the holster's textured exterior grabs at the lining of my pocket; once I finally get it settled, though, I'm glad for the friction, which helps keep it in place as I run through a few trial draws.

In my bathroom mirror I verify that the Sig does not print, especially with the hem of my sweater draping loosely over it. Looking more closely at my reflection, I am a little startled by the determined set of my jaw, the unfamiliar hardness in my eyes. _All right, Rachel Duncan. Let's see what you have to say for yourself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I'm totally spitballing about the make and model of Delphine's little gun. In the best screencaps I could find from s3e10, it somewhat resembles a Springfield XDs with a modified grip (the standard grip has much more pronounced etching and no finger grooves); however, it's hammer-fired rather than striker-fired, which is a bit unusual in a subcompact these days, and the controls are completely different. Also, I don't think that Diana would have recommended that Delphine carry a gun for which the manufacturer issued a massive recall. I'm of the opinion that this is actually a Franken-gun that's been cobbled together by the set department. If anyone has any further information, please let me know; otherwise, for fictional purposes, I'm letting Delphine keep the P938. *g*_


	2. Chapter 2

Rachel Duncan in her usual contemptuous, supercilious, dismissive mode is irritating but predictable, a known quantity, the wasp you can see in the room.

Rachel Duncan being respectful, conciliatory and _kind_ scares the shit out of me.

My mind races furiously as I walk down the long corridor back to my office, consciously slowing my strides and forcing myself to remain outwardly calm.

Of course the story about Aldous' having had a heart attack on a company jet is completely bogus. For a man his age, he was in remarkably good health, though I suspect that was largely due to the stupendous biochemical, surgical and other means available to him rather than through effort and discipline on his own. I do not doubt that he is indeed dead, though, and that likely Rachel was parroting the story and performing for the cameras' benefit.

So they killed him.

Foolish to ask _why?_ or _how?_ or even who "they" are. Whether Dyad or Topside, someone or some entity clearly found him no longer useful and... dispatched him, neatly and effiiciently.

Dyad has always been the province of those drawn to the tantalizing allure of unimaginable power, wealth and influence. Some, like Aldous, manage to ride the thermals and turbulent airs like predatory hawks, rising ever higher and always vigilant to weakness below until they are picked off in turn by a yet more powerful hawk swooping down from above. And then there are the many underlings who dance attendance on those who wield authority and clout, like moths who cannot resist flying ever closer to the flames.

I am neither hawk nor moth. Rather, I envision myself as one of the invisible horde of worker bees who put their heads down and keep the machinery moving, harmless and unthreatening in their very anonymity.

Reaching my office at last, I lock the door behind me and flop gratefully into my desk chair, blowing out a plosive puff of air.

The awkward pressure at my right thigh reminds me of the presence of my small friend. Lifting up my hips, carefully I ease the holster out of my pocket. Point to Diana: neither Rachel nor her personal close protection detail nor her painfully over-groomed assistant had spotted the Sig — or, as is more likely, none of them had even considered the possibility that I was armed. However, where I am going next, the security will not be so lax.

Slipping the gun out of the nylon sheath, I make a mental note to tell Diana to add the holster to my tab. Dropping the mag and thumbing free the hollow points, I return the little Sig to its rug and the bullets to their box. Zipping my range bag shut, I lock it securely in the largest drawer of my desk.

From another drawer, I pull out my AeroPress, setting it up on top of a thick ceramic mug. While filtered water heats in my electric kettle, I grind coffee beans in my manual burr grinder, sniffing appreciatively at the aroma when I pour the grounds into the press' chamber. Just as large bubbles start to form in the kettle, I pour in enough water to saturate the grounds, letting them bloom and fully discharge carbon dioxide, then fill the chamber; after stirring thoroughly and then allowing the grounds to steep, I depress the plunger. Popping out the "puck" into my bathroom trashcan, I rinse the rubber seal, then return to my desk and indulge myself in sipping the incredibly rich, smooth, flavorful brew.

Calmer now, I contemplate Rachel's ostensible change of heart.

It is undeniably an act, but to what end? Her unsettling shift in demeanor reminds me inexorably of Cleckley's case studies in his pioneering work on sociopathy, which despite its many outdated observations still affected me profoundly when I did my Psychiatry blocks in med school. Over and over, he demonstrates how the sociopath, at least nominally aware of his character, emulates normalcy by overcompensating.

I cannot rid myself of the impression that Rachel is putting on her best imitation of an empathetic human being.

Surely there is at least some truth to her transformation. Perhaps she has finally realized that Cosima's illness may someday affect her as well. That, and the knowledge that Aldous withheld critical information from all of us, could very well explain her attempt at rapprochement.

I had long ago come to the conclusion that her attitude toward me was at least in part a reflection of Aldous'. Take, for example, her attitude toward Cosima, which has always been considerate, even deferential — because Aldous had always made it clear that she was a prize worthy of pursuit. Never mind that my credentials are impeccable and, frankly, far more impressive than Cosima's. Clearly I miscalculated in attaching myself to Aldous so early on in my career at Dyad; I have since paid the price for it in his and therefore Rachel's disdain, unconscious or otherwise.

But that no longer matters.

Assuming that she is at least partly sincere in her willingness to extend the olive branch, I cannot see any other way to move forward besides the plan she is proposing.

I finish my coffee, grab my purse and head down to the garage, entering my destination into the car's GPS.

As I approach the house, whose absolutely ordinary appearance belies the extraordinary nature of its occupants, I see the edge of a curtain flutter back into place in a window on the lower floor. Steeling myself, I knock firmly on the door, hoping fervently that Mrs. S won't simply shoot first and not bother to ask questions later.

"Mrs. S, someone here to see you," says a male voice behind the door. I cannot be certain, but I think it belongs to that man with the face like a mournful hatchet, the one who always seems to be in Siobhan Sadler's orbit.

She doesn't even try to hide the shotgun.

As I allow my coat and purse to be searched and my person to be patted down, I look around surreptitiously, but I am sure that Mrs. S is highly unlikely to allow any interloper to catch so much as a glimpse of either Kira or Duncan.

"She's clean."

"Thank you, Benjamin." A glance from those cold blue eyes is all it takes. The hatchet-faced man excuses himself from the room, no doubt remaining within earshot of any potential trouble.

After my delivery of Rachel's message and offer to an understandably sceptical Mrs. S and Sarah, I leave the house feeling as though I have a target prominently pinned to my back. I do not breathe freely until I am back in my car.

During the drive back to the office, it occurs to me that of all the reasons for which Rachel might hate Sarah — her having successfully carried and borne Kira, the fierce love and support of her sisters and brother, her ability to disrupt by the mere fact of her existence the very institutions and protocols that are the only life Rachel knows — the thing that worms its way into her gut and eats at the shriveled dark thing she calls a soul is her immeasurable envy that Sarah has a mother who would literally kill for her.


	3. Chapter 3

Back in my office, I feel at a loss for what to do next. Rachel's request that I familiarize myself with the untold numbers of other Leda clones means that I will soon need to start excavating through Aldous' vast store of files and notes, but that is a monumental task that will require all my energy and attention — not something that should be undertaken at the end of an emotionally fraught day. I consider Samantha's invitation, but I don't want to go socialize with coworkers and staff and have to field the inevitable inquiries about Cosima's absence. I really don't feel like being faced with the small mountain of her belongings that was delivered to my flat this afternoon.

At just such a time as this is when I would usually find any excuse to drop by her lab, to check in on her, to give in to the desire to see and feel and talk to her, no matter how desultory or mundane the subject.

When did Cosima become my life, become so intertwined with the very fibers of my existence that being apart from her seems like an amputation?

I do need to talk to her, to tell her what has happened with Aldous and what is being set into motion, but I am not yet ready to stomach her scorn and indifference. Not yet ready to acquire a fresh set of wounds while the current ones are still raw and bleeding.

Remembering Sophie's call, I check my watch. It's not quite midnight in Paris, certainly not too late for my bohemian night-owl friend. I pull out my phone.

 _"It's about damn time,"_ she says by way of greeting.

I smile, picturing the arch look on her gamine features, the wrinkling of her retroussé nose. "Sorry, I've been, euh, busy."

_"I'll bet. What's his name?"_

Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly. " _Her_ name is Cosima."

 _"No fucking way! You're dating a girl?"_ I can almost hear the gears turning furiously in her mind. _"So how did you meet? How long have you been together? What's she like? What does she do? And is the sex amazing? No, of course it's amazing, you've been silent for weeks, she's probably been shagging your brains out, I've heard that about lesbians. So does this mean you're a lesbian now or are you just experimenting — "_

"Wait, wait, wait, one thing at a time," I can't help laughing. Even over the phone, Sophie is a force of nature. Settling more comfortably in my chair, I revel in the freedom of conversing without constantly having to translate back and forth and make corrections in my head. After so long in North America, my English has become far more fluent and very nearly second nature, but speaking French feels like taking off my shoes at the end of a long day and wiggling my toes into deep, plush carpet. "It's a little complicated but we met through, um, work."

_"Of course you met at work. You were always such a good little swot, you would never even go out clubbing unless I dragged you with me. So, what, your eyes met over a test tube and there were sparks?"_

"Not... quite."

A dramatic sigh. _"As forthcoming as ever, aren't you, Cormier. Come on, spill. Confession is good for the soul."_

"Since when do you believe in the soul? Or confession?"

_"Since when do you think I can't tell when you're being evasive? This is me, remember, your best friend since we were eleven."_

"You were my _only_ friend when we were eleven."

_"And whose fault was that? I wasn't the one who buried herself in the library all day and in her room all night during her first semester at ISSH. No one would have known what you looked like, much less that you actually had a personality, if it weren't for me."_

"I would never have gotten into trouble, much less had purple hair for half a year, if it weren't for you."

_"What are roommates for? You should thank the powers that be who decided to put us together. So tell me about this girl who swept you off your feet and into her bed."_

"Where to begin? She's brilliant — I've never known anyone whose mind works like hers, always making these sideways little leaps and unexpected connections. She's funny, sarcastic, impudent and utterly charming. And she's beautiful. When she smiles, it's like basking in the sun, but a sun that shines for you alone."

 _"Wow. You're really gone on her."_

"I love her," I say softly, impulsively, realizing immediately that I mean it with all my heart.

A pregnant pause. _"Does she know about Édouard?"_

Yet another stab of guilt to my conscience. "That's ancient history. It's nothing to do with us."

_"Well, you did all but leave him at the altar. And you shacked up with him for a few years before that. I mean, I was cheering for you when you finally dumped his handsome, uptight, passive-aggressive ass, but he was still a fairly significant part of your life for a while. You don't think she should know about him?"_

"We... haven't spent much time talking about the past."

Sophie sighs again. _"You never change. So do I get to see what this paragon of brains and charm and beauty looks like?"_

"Hang on." Scrolling through the pictures on my phone, I find my favorite one, the one that I feel best illustrates Cosima's personality and sensuality. Taken during the weekend we spent at Felix's loft, it shows her in bed, clearly naked though partly covered by a burgundy sheet, the sun slanting through the wide windows across the upper half of her body and making her pale olive skin glow. A sideways smile curls her mouth; still sleepy but already reaching toward me, her hunger and want are obvious in the glint of her eyes. I hesitate a second, then hit Send.

_"Okay, she's gorgeous. If I were into girls, I'd totally hit that. Hell, I might hit that anyway, just for fun. What's with the dreadlocks? She doesn't look black."_

"She's not, they're just her."

_"I like the nose ring. And she does a killer cat eye. Damn."_

"What?"

_"Who'd have thought that my strait-laced nose-to-the-grindstone stereotypical Good Girl best friend would turn out to have such a wild side?"_

"Very funny. It's not like that at all, it doesn't feel wild, it just feels... "

_"What?"_

"Right. It feels right."

And just like that I am overcome with the need to see her. I don't care if she slams the door in my face or systematically sharpens her claws on my psyche, I need to know that she is okay. And that there is the possibilty that I can work my way back into her good graces, short of actually grovelling.

Catching up with Sophie's latest news — her current boyfriends (Marc and Guillaume, who know about each other and seem to be open to having a threesome), her current hair color (something called fire ombre, which I imagine looks stunning with her fair complexion), her upcoming exhibition at Modus (mostly nude photographs, mostly of herself) — I extricate myself as quickly and dexterously as I can, promising her a nice long gossipy Skype session soon.

Almost of their own accord, my steps carry me along the well-worn path toward the older wing, simultaneously longing for and dreading the reception that awaits me.


	4. Chapter 4

Of all the things I had been expecting to greet me in her lab at this hour, Scott and a trio of other techs playing one of her incomprehensibly complicated board games is not one of them.

Surprise renders me stiff and awkward. "We need to talk."

Nearly as stiffly, she motions me off to the side, near her desk and away from where her friends are scrupulously not paying attention to us.

I bend toward her, speaking low and stealthily inhaling her scent. "Cosima, things are moving too fast to be this way. I think they killed Aldous."

"What?" She rocks back on her heels, clearly shocked, perhaps even more than I had been at the news.

Quickly I tell her about Rachel and Duncan. "I'm trying to help. Tell me what you want."

A parade of conflicting emotions flits across her face, but then the familiar insouciance tugs at the corner of her mouth. "I'm going to keep the promise that I made to you when we first met." I tilt my head in mute inquiry, holding her gaze. "That one day, I'd get you completely baked."

I can't help it. I start laughing because it's such an absurd non sequitur, and because I am so abjectly relieved that she is no longer literally and figuratively shutting me out, and because the twinge in my conscience — my Jiminy Cricket voice, as she calls it — tells me that this is probably a very bad idea, that there are far more constructive uses for our time, never mind how many workplace rules we would be violating.

But how can I say no to her? Especially now.

Unceremoniously she bundles her friends out the door and recodes the lock. "Set to open only for emergencies, even for the Dyad higher-ups," she says, noting my curiosity.

"How do you decide what constitutes an emergency?"

She smirks. "Fire. Earthquake. Eskimo Pie shortage. Anything else can go hang." Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a clunky, clearly homemade plastic rectangular device and clicks a switch. I raise an eyebrow. "Now all the cameras will see is a really boring three-hour loop of me messing around on my computer."

My mouth opens to ask her a torrent of questions but she silences me with the softest of kisses. Sitting down at her desk, she opens a drawer and removes a wide cigar box that contains a number of familiar objects.

Perching on the edge of the desk, I watch with interest. I've seen her roll joints dozens of times but, probably because I've never before been personally involved, this is the first time I've actually paid attention to the process.

First she cuts a narrow strip from an index card, folds one end into an accordion shape and wraps the remainder tightly around it to form a small cylinder. Picking out several fat, sticky looking, almost neon green nugs from a dark glass jar, she breaks them carefully into pieces and puts them through a grinder. From a small packet labeled king-sized hemp, she pulls out a beige paper, so thin and flimsy that it is nearly translucent; placing the crutch at one end, she pours out the ground herb, distributing it more heavily on the side opposite the filter. Using a tiny plastic tool, she scrapes up a bit of the layer of tacky powder from the bottom compartment of the grinder and sprinkles it evenly over the herb, then expertly packs and rolls the whole thing into a compact fat cone shape, finally licking the gum strip on the edge of the paper to stick it all together.

Taking me by the hand and towing me over to the loveseat, Cosima holds out the joint to me along with a lighter. "Just a small toke to start with — this is pretty potent stuff. It's your first time, yeah?" I nod. "Right. Then you won't know how you'll react just yet, so go easy."

The motions of lighting the joint are instantly familiar and almost soothing to my hands. Carefully I inhale, holding the smoke in for several long seconds. It is smoother than I had expected, certainly far less harsh than the first cigarette I ever tried as a teenager. The taste is not what I had expected, either. While there is the suggestion of "gasoline and old tires," as she has described this particular strain, there are unexpectedly varied and more complex flavors as well, from lemony to piney to faintly peppery, that play over my palate as I slowly exhale in a thin stream.

Watching me carefully, she takes the smoldering joint from my hand, her eyes closing and the cherry glowing brightly as she drags smoke deeply into her lungs.

At first I cannot tell that anything is happening, but after several more equally conservative tokes, I realize that my my heart is beating faster and my head is starting to spin. "It's going clockwise," I announce with great solemnity, feeling my face flush.

Her eyes are already bloodshot; I imagine that mine must be as well, because I can feel my pulse through them. She blows out a thick seemingly endless column of white smoke up toward the ceiling. "Look, they've elected the Pope. What's going clockwise?"

"The room. And I think they changed the gravitational constant. See?" My limbs seem to be very heavy, and very far away. I lift my arm with some effort, watching it wave about, then let it drop slowly back to my lap.

Cosima starts to giggle. "No, babe, you're just getting stoned."

For some reason that is the funniest thing I have ever heard. I start to laugh with her, harder and harder until I actually slide off the loveseat and wind up boneless on the floor with my head resting on her thigh. Which makes me laugh even more, so much that I erupt in a fit of coughing the next time she passes me the joint. It is considerably depleted by now; she takes one last long pull, then stubs out the crutch into an ashtray.

Time seems to have slowed down. Every physical sensation seems more intense — even the simple brush of her fingers through my hair and over my scalp makes me shiver with delight tremoring up and down my spine. I can hear the muscles in her leg shifting beneath my ear, feel the heat of her radiating in almost visible waves.

At some point she must have turned on some music, hypnotic in its freeform rhythms and floating wordless vocalizations. When I close my eyes, I can see strange elastic shapes and colors that dance and pulse in sync with the beat. "Oh! It's so pretty."

"Mmm?"

"The music. It's the exact colors of sunset at the Louvre in autumn."

Her hand slides down to cup my cheek. My eyes still closed, I rub my cheek against her palm, dropping a tiny kiss on her thumb. "Dude, you're high as fuck," she says, a smile warming her voice.

That sets me laughing again, but now my mouth is getting uncomfortably dry. Before I can figure out how to make my legs work again so I can get a drink, Cosima hands me a bottle of water. I gulp at it greedily, the cool liquid soothing the irritation at the back of my throat. "Thank you, chérie, but how did you know?"

"Trust me, I know. Are you hungry?"

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, I realize that I am, with an intense craving for something sweet. She breaks off a piece from a bar of chocolate and feeds it to me. I let it melt on my tongue, nearly moaning as I swallow. "That is the best thing I have ever tasted."

"It's just a Hershey bar. Remind me to get you to smoke if I ever I cook for you."

Reaching for her, I pull her down for a kiss. The angle is awkward and uncomfortable for both of us, though, so she joins me on the floor, straddling me and winding her hands into my hair as her mouth claims mine.

We have always been physically in tune with one another, but kissing her and holding her so closely while being stoned has a stupendously strange and wonderful effect. I have never felt so connected to her, so very aware of every touch, taste, scent and even sound, from the quickening of her breath and pulse to the subtle brush of her dreads against her sweater and the tiny whimpering moans that tell me she feels the same.

Time and reality seem to be astonishingly variable. I'm not surprised even when Cosima fetches an E tank from next door. "Do I want to know why you keep helium in your bottle farm?" I ask as she fits the neck of a balloon onto the nozzle and inflates it.

"Because," she says with complete seriousness, holding the balloon to her mouth and inhaling, "helium is way funnier than polonium."

I burst out laughing at its effect on her voice and at the nonsensical nature of her response, laughing even harder when she passes the balloon to me. The persistent buzz from the weed lends itself to the hilarity of what I suspect is a remarkably silly and stupid conversation, but I don't care.

We try dancing but our coordination is far too impaired and after a short while we end up back on the loveseat, Cosima sprawling across my lap. "Is the helium voice gone now?" I say, smiling down at her.

"Uhhh... yes, it is."

"Good. Because," I clasp her hand in mine, intertwining our fingers, "there is something important I want to tell you." She waits expectantly. "Je t'aime."

If I had been hoping for a heartfelt outpouring of emotion, I would have been dismayed. After the tempestuous roller coaster of the past few days, though, I find I am simply relieved and grateful to have her back in my arms, despite the cynical bent of her words.

"Because if you betray us again," she continues, with a gently bemused look on her face, "I have enough dirt on you to destroy your career. And I love you, too."

Half laughing, half crying, I stroke the curve of her face, reveling in the softness of her skin. "Come on. Let's go home."

She turns her head to press her lips to my palm. "Are you as out of your mind horny as I am right now?"

"More."

"Cool."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I've always sworn that I would never recapitulate actual dialogue and action from the show in my writing, and here I've gone and done it in huge chunks. Kind of unavoidable in this scene, though I did try to minimize it. So, sorry, but not sorry. The next chapter coming up, which will be the last in this story, consists almost entirely of Cophine having sex while they're still high, so exit through the side door if that's not your thing._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Should go without saying that this is NSFW..._

The cold clear air helps to banish the swirling fog from my head, though the supremely relaxed, euphoric feeling and the heightening of my senses persist. Neither of us feels energetic enough to walk the half kilometer to my place. While we wait for one of the company drivers to pull around to the front entrance, we occupy ourselves with kissing each other dizzy, tongues lips and teeth dancing and tangling in slow exploration, tasting our growing hunger.

She undoes the buttons of my coat and slips her hands around me beneath the hem of my sweater, circling the pads of her fingers over the small of my back. I shiver, pleasure rippling up and down my spine at the delicate touch. In response, I slide one hand under her dreads to knead the silky nape of her neck; softly she moans into our kiss.

A throat clears. "Dr. Cormier?"

I realize that I have no idea how long the driver has been standing there, waiting placidly beside the open rear door of one of Dyad's ubiquitous black Town Cars. Smiling and inclining my head at him in apology, I help Cosima into the back seat and scoot in after her.

The privacy screen is up but both of us know perfectly well that there are hidden recording cameras in the passenger compartment, so we limit ourselves to holding hands. Throughout the short ride to my building, her thumb gently caresses the inside of my wrist. Even this seemingly innocuous touch is electrifying, as though every nerve ending in my body were wired to that one spot.

Before we manage to make it through the lobby to the elevator we are kissing again, languorously, lingering over every little detail as though discovering it anew. Several long minutes pass before I realize that we are not moving; quickly I dig my keycard out of my purse and slot it into the control panel's reader, launching us smoothly upward. I kiss the beauty spot on her right cheek, then brush feather-light kisses along the curve of her cheekbone until I reach the supremely tender flesh below her jawline. "You're driving me crazy," she murmurs huskily.

"Good." I trace the fine scrollwork of her ear with my lips and tongue, fascinated by its textures, velvet skin over springy cartilage. Nibbling and suckling at the plump lobe, I play the tip of my tongue over the tiny dimple at its center. "Cosima, why don't you ever wear earrings?"

"Had a bad reaction to cheap metal posts when I was a kid, so I let the holes heal closed. I saved up until I could afford 18 karat for my nose piercing — abscesses aren't sexy."

"Maybe not, but it would give us a good excuse to play doctor. You could be the very naughty patient who needs to be taught a stern lesson."

"That sounds like the premise of a lot of really bad porn. Dr. Cormier, you are absolutely adorable when you're baked." Her mouth nips gently at the pulse at my throat. "Well, you're adorable almost all of the time."

I swat her rear end through the thick wool of her coat. "Only 'almost all' of the time?"

Teeth worry carefully at the joining of my neck and shoulder. "You do have your moments." She tips up her head to kiss me. Leading me out of the elevator to the entranceway, she sheds her coat and tosses it over a bench, then helps me out of mine.

I find myself sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace, mesmerized by the dancing flickering flames and the palpable warmth radiating through the glassfront panel. At some point I must have removed my boots and socks, because they are nowhere to be seen and my bare toes are flexing and extending luxuriously into the thick pile. Clattering noises and the hiss of a faucet tell me that Cosima is puttering around in the kitchen. Music starts to play over the sound system, adding its rhythmically compelling beat to the patterns and colors that fill my vision.

When she returns, she holds out a glass of ice water to me. I take it gratefully, draining it and setting it aside. She smiles, then encourages me to lie back on the floor, draping herself over me and brushing back a tumble of my hair as she leans in for a kiss. "This is kinda like being a teenager again."

"Mmm?" Her lips and tongue and hands are doing remarkable things to my nerve endings.

"Blazing up and then making out like crazy in the living room. Only we don't have to worry that my parents might walk in and bust us."

With the tip of my tongue, I trace the ridged symphysis of the roof of her mouth, then let my tongue tangle slowly with hers. She tastes of the sweetness of fresh water, of the faint pungent trace of weed, of something pleasantly acidic that she must have had for dinner. "Is there some reason we can't do more than make out?"

Cosima grins crookedly down at me, the firelight reflected in her glasses and glinting off her nose ring. "Not that I wouldn't love to but you're still under the influence of a bomb-ass psychoactive substance for the first time in your life and there are, like, I dunno, gentleman's rules about taking advantage of a woman in such a condition."

"To hell with being a gentleman." Using my hip to lever her over onto her back, I brace my weight on my elbow while I fumble open the button at my waistband and yank down the zip of my fly. Guiding her hand into the liquid heat between my legs, I moan as her fingers brush gently over already soaked curls. "Does this feel like I don't want to be taken advantage of?"

Swallowing, her mouth falls open. Her fingertips trace ever so lightly around the no doubt turgidly swollen lips of my sex, the heat that has been thrumming through me all evening rapidly coming to a boil. I cannot suppress a voluptuously wanton moan and the roiling of my hips instantly elicited by this simplest of touches. "Fuck it," she growls, freeing her hand and pulling me down into a searing kiss.

"I wish you would," I say breathlessly, opening eagerly to her plundering of my mouth.

She burrows into my neck, laughing. "Being high makes you crack bad jokes, check." Soft lips kiss a trail up the side of my throat. "Tell me how you feel."

"Oh." I find myself mentally narrating a running commentary, cataloguing everything I'm experiencing during each malleable second. Every part of my nervous system is awake, attuned to her, hyperaware of every touch, every taste, every scent, every slightest movement of her body against mine. "Mostly I just feel really, really good."

"Works for me." Her hands slide beneath my sweater to play over my belly, deep muscles rippling in their wake, then move upward, pushing up the thin material with them. "This is in my way," she whispers hoarsely as her palms envelop my breasts, trapping the hard peaks of my nipples between her fingers and kneading, arcing lines of arousal connecting sensitive flesh directly to my already pulsing cunt and clit.

I sit up with a groan, stripping off my sweater and camisole and flinging them somewhere across the room. "Off," I say, tugging at her hem. Obligingly she stretches out her arms and hitches up her torso slightly to let me slide the bulky knit fabric over her head. Unfastening her bra, I slip it off, admiring the way her skin seems to absorb the firelight and glow as though lit from within.

Reverently I let my fingers curl over the gentle slope of one breast, lazily circling the very tips over soft-firm springing flesh. I bend to take her nipple into my mouth, swirling my tongue over the dusky pebbled surface with something akin to wonder. Deciding I like the harsh growl that emanates from deep within her chest when I suckle hard and close my teeth over the little nub, I move to ravish her other breast, going back and forth until she is arching toward me.

Letting my fingers drift down the flat plain of her belly, I lift my head to kiss her again. "I need to feel all of your skin, chérie."

She nods. More quickly than I would have believed possible, she squirms out of her loose cropped pants and underwear, letting her thighs part invitingly and preening under my gaze.

I reflexively bite my lower lip, running my tongue over the trapped inner curve as I let my eyes rove over every lovely inch of her; I cannot stop the smile from stealing across my face at the sight. She glistens in the dimmed light, pools of gathered arousal painting her sex, her thighs. A quiet moan lodges in my throat as the first rich tendrils of her scent tantalize my nostrils.

Watching me looking at her, she smiles in return and not so subtly lets her thighs fall wider open. Slipping between her legs, I urge them apart with my shoulders, the flats of my hands softly splaying her folds. I bend forward to catch the barest hint of her on the tip of my tongue. She tastes exquisite, and immediately I return for more, dipping my tongue more deeply into the copious wetness I find there.

And oh, god, if I thought her _mouth_ was delicious...

The taste of her fills my senses with sweet salt musk tang, every part of my tongue seeming to experience a different flavor and texture and awakening a wave of hunger that washes through me. Immediately her hips start circling, pumping, swaying, silently begging for my touch.

Greedily drinking her in, I glory in her come bathing my face, the wet slick sounds of mouth eagerly meeting heated flesh in desire, her hoarse cries urging me on, the near-painful twining of her fingers into my hair. My tongue glides its way up and down each side of her distended clit, back and forth across the straining little shaft, curling over it to suck gently and fleetingly, dipping into each fold surrounding her cunt and claiming the entire shining landscape for my own.

Flicking my eyes upward, I devour the sight of her flexing abs making her breasts undulate, the slacking gape of her mouth as she pants raggedly, the reflexive arch of her body as I trap her bursting clit between my tongue and upper lip and rasp it mercilessly.

Just before the rising tension in her body can break, I pull away, making her whine in frustration. Sitting up, I reach for the abandoned glass on the floor. Enough of the ice has melted to give me a few swallows of cold water, which I gulp down. Holding an ice cube in my mouth for a moment, I spit it back into the glass, then immediately latch back onto her clit, the temperature difference enough to elicit a shriek even as she writhes helplessly.

I fish out another ice cube, playing it over each of her nipples in turn and following it with the snare of my mouth, my tongue and teeth lashing and nipping at her. Trailing the slippery cube down her belly, her fragmented breath breaks the shining trail into an abstract spatter of droplets that mingle with the sheen of sweat shimmering over her torso. Teasingly I approach but do not touch her swollen clit, instead bypassing it to slip the remnant of the ice directly into her cunt.

She gasps, a strangled sound wresting from her throat as her hips vault into the air; by the time they land back on the floor with a thump, I have settled once more between her straining thighs, snaking my tongue deep inside her, marveling at the contrast between the shocking heat of her walls and the cold trickle from the melting ice cube. My tongue teasing and fleeting against every fold and swell and crease, circling and plunging, I revel in gathering as much as I can of the flood of her arousal.

Pulling back to focus my breath to play over her thick-sheened sex, I direct a thin stream of cool air across her plumply scarlet clit, making her weeping cunt whicker. I smile inwardly at her vexed shout, her involuntarily thrashing hips that seek a more palpable presence.

I slide my hands between her legs to spread her wide open once again. My upper body cresting and falling with the surge of her pelvis, I close my lips around her clit, sucking and licking and battering at the throbbing little bundle. Hips rocking recklessly against me, she pours over my hands, down her legs, soaking the lower half of my face, writhing and quaking continuously and uncontrollably. Reveling in her wordless and increasingly desperate cries, I ply her clit steadily, relentlessly until she shatters apart. Drawing out every shuddering, enthralling, messily wet instant of her release with my mouth and fingers, I let her guide the gradual slowing of our rhythm until she is gasping and heavily limp from exhaustion.

Gathering Cosima into my arms, I gently encourage her to collapse atop me, gladly absorbing the press of her slight weight, every tremor that quakes through her body. The coarse rub of her nipples against my own sends a bolt of arousal shooting straight to the clamoring pulse of my sex. Her mouth blindly seeking mine, even the merest touch of her hands against the curve of my ribcage and the indent of my waist threatens to undo me. "Holy fucking shit, Dr. Cormier," she murmurs against my lips, kissing me deeply, hungrily. The urgency of her mouth and the clinging of her body leave me breathless and incapable of doing anything but to respond in kind. I let my fingers drift up and down the length of her sweat-cooling back. She sighs into our kiss, a captivatingly kitten-like sound that makes me giggle.

"I'm losing my touch," she says who-knows-how-long later, resting her head on my shoulder and dusting tiny kisses over the most sensitive spots of my neck and throat.

I breathe in the scent of her hair, burrowing my mouth in the soft-rough textures of her dreads. "How do you mean?"

A curving smile presses against my skin. "I've just been eaten out by an impossibly gorgeous, sexy woman and I never even managed to get her pants off." She playfully swipes her tongue up my cheek, then slowly licks off the traces of herself from my mouth and face.

"No reflection on your technique, chérie. I wanted you too much — getting undressed would have taken far too long."

"Bee charmer. But it's my turn to get half-drowned in come."

She starts to move downward but I tighten my hold on her, keeping her in place. The pressure of her body against mine reminds me that there is another growing urge that I need to take care of first. "I would love that. Right now, though, if I don't get to the bathroom, you're going to have to deal with a deluge of an entirely different nature."

Laughing, she rolls to the side, letting me sit up. "Yeah, not into golden showers, dude."

"I'll be right back." I lean over to steal a swift kiss.

In my bathroom, I quickly discover that she is not the only one who regrets not having removed my pants earlier: the tight stretchy sweat-damp cloth clings stubbornly to my legs and it takes considerable effort to peel them off. My underwear is nearly translucent, having been soaked through at the crotch. I drop the sodden garments into the laundry hamper and then finally, practically groaning, I empty my bladder in a seemingly endless, strangely satisfying stream.

Loose-bellied and slack-limbed with relief, I pad naked back to the living room to find Cosima on the floor leaning back against the sofa and pensively smoking a joint. A pinner, I note, much smaller and slimmer than the one she had rolled in her lab. "Hey, babe," she says, exhaling through her mouth and nose, her expression already a little dreamy. "Sorry, I was coming down too quickly. Want a hit?"

Sitting next to her, I take inventory of my body's state of being. The feeling that time is elongated and elastic seems to be dissipating. Looking into the fire, I see only flickering flames, no haloes or echoes of hallucinatory shapes. "I think I may be coming down, too. But I'm not sure I want to get that high again right now."

"That's cool. Here, try this," she says, taking a deep hit, then kissing me softly. "Breathe in," she murmurs against my lips.

Curious, I inhale, seeing and feeling the smoke curl into my mouth, immediately understanding. The effect is not nearly as strong as smoking the joint directly, but after several kisses it is enough to make me pleasantly lightheaded and tingly and warm all over.

And to remind me that I am still, as she had put it, out of my mind horny.

After she finishes her little joint, she helps me up and guides me to sit on the sofa. Sliding my ass to the forward edge and tucking a pile of cushions behind me so that I am lying at a slight angle, she kneels between my legs. "You're so goddamned beautiful," she says, grazing her lips just over the top of my mound, making me shiver. Her hands roam up my legs, gentling the straining tensions she finds there. Bending, she presses delicate kisses into the junctures of my thighs and torso.

Each stroke and tease of her tongue wracks another shudder up my spine until I could swear that I am nothing but one continuous undulation. The heat of her mouth, the ghostly brush of her breath make the muscles of my legs tense rhythmically. My hips grind inelegantly toward her. Wetter than I can ever recall being, my entire skin seems to sing in response to her touch, but I need more. "Cosima," I growl through gritted teeth, glaring down at her.

The burnished glow from the firelight glimmers over her skin, highlighting the curves of her cheek and jaw. "Yes, Delphine?" she says with mock innocence. The glitter in her eyes tells me that she knows exactly what she is doing to me.

I fumble for words that will convey how I feel at this moment, then recall something she had said to me early in our relationship. "That pussy isn't going to eat itself!"

She breaks up laughing, ending in a raspily productive cough. When she recovers, she settles my legs over her shoulders, then at last delves into the aching pour of my crease.

My eyes nearly roll back in my head at the first touch of her tongue, small mewling sounds dripping from me as she traces each crevice, each line, each ridege of my sex, dragging over my clit that is swollen beyond measure. Reaching to gnarl my hands into her dreads, my entire body sparking with arousal, I lean back helplessly, gasping and arching into her as unbearable pleasure jags through me in response to the mastery of her mouth.

Wetness pours from my empty cunt. "I need you inside me," I say hoarsely. Instantly she obliges, sliding two fingers easily into me and curling them forward. My cunt welcomes her fingers, bathing them in slick warmth and grasping hungrily. Heat and sweat and growing desire thicken the air around us. "More!" My voice is unrecognizable.

Suckling and worrying at my thrumming clit with her lips and tongue, she withdraws only long enough to add a third and then soon a fourth finger, plunging in to the widest part of her hand, using the bucking and grinding of my body to insinuate herself farther inside me. My hips fall into her rhythm as she works deeper and deeper, her mouth on my clit driving me mad.

She tucks her thumb carefully into her palm and soaks her hand in the flood of my arousal, pressing into my willing cunt, pausing as my body registers this new presence, moving with me and letting me set the pace. There is only a moment of resistance, then, like the exhalation of a long-held breath, I take her in, swallowing her entire hand and feeling it fold around her thumb until it curls within me and I am palpitating around her wrist like a second heartbeat.

"You all right?" she murmurs, letting me adjust to the unaccustomed invasion, her small hand stretching my walls delightfully.

My head falls back, body strung taut with incandescent tension. I am so utterly, gloriously _full_. "Fuck, yes," I manage to croak, squirming and gasping as her mouth gently laves my clit, the spread of my cunt lips. "Please..."

As she delves deeper, I can feel every knurl and ridge of her hand as she rocks it gently, small movements whose every change in direction sends a shuddering ripple up my spine and makes me clutch helplessly at her. My cunt weeps its pleasure over her wrist and down my thighs as she moves steadily now, confident of the fit of her hand inside me. So focused am I on this incredibly intimate embrace that I am almost shocked when I feel her other hand slip around beneath me. Fingers slick with the copious pour from my cunt, she rims the tight ring of my ass, pulsing lightly and clearly enjoying the jerking beg of my hips. Patiently she presses the pad of her finger directly against my little pucker. I open easily to her, clinging to the slender intrusion that ratchets my arousal even higher.

Blood thunders into my cunt and clit. My heart threatens to burst from my chest, lungs searing as I cry out in time with every plunge and twist of her hand within me, the echoing thrust of her finger in my ass.

Gladly giving in to the sensations cascading through me, I listen to the rising song of my body, feeling the gathering of my cunt, the tightening of my ass. Rocking and rotating, her knuckles keep hitting a spot at the front wall of my cunt that feels increasingly intense, building not only in waves but also to a strong but steady desire to push from my pelvic floor. Lights dance behind my tight-shut eyelids, continuous moans and cries falling from me until the flashfire instant when I start to convulse around her hand her finger into her mouth, coming deep and slow and hard for what seems like minutes as she works me through layer after layer of release, culminating in a sudden rush of hot liquid spilling down my legs, spurting with pronounced spasms of my abdominal and pelvic muscles and splashing noisily over the rug.

My movements slacken, my body totally spent except for the contractions of my cunt around her hand. Letting my heart catch up, I am still wondering where my breath has gone. Dazed, I open my eyes to see Cosima grinning cockily up at me. "What ... ?"

"You just ejaculated like a motherfuckin' boss."

I blink. "Really? I've heard about it but I never thought I would actually be able to do it."

She presses a butterfly kiss to the inside of my thigh. "You have before, you know."

"I have?"

"Yeah, sometimes, especially when I fuck you from behind, but never as powerfully as this. I mean, that was, like, Cytherea-esque."

"Who?"

Carefully freeing her finger and shifting to cradle me on the sofa, her hand still lodged within me, she kisses me softly. "That will require a bit of audio-visual demonstration to explain."

Tasting myself all over her mouth and face, I smile against her lips. "All right. But I do prefer your hands-on approach."

"My kind of girl."

Much later, physically exhausted but clear-headed for the first time in hours, I press my lips to Cosima's temple as she snuggles sleepily against my side in bed. "Chérie?" I whisper, breathing in her scent, tasting the salt of her skin.

At first I am not sure that she has heard me, then, "Mmmhmm?"

"Are we... okay?"

Her small body burrows closer. "Let's just keep telling ourselves that, shall we?" she mumbles into my neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I **still** have no idea why the chapter 1 note about Delphine's little gun insists on showing up at the end of this section. Thanks to everyone for the comments and kind words! On to the [next story in the series](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6312064/chapters/14461036)..._

**Author's Note:**

> _I'm spitballing about the make and model of Delphine's little gun. In the best screencaps I could find from s3e10, it actually looks more like a Springfield XDs with a modified grip (the standard grip has much more pronounced etching and no finger grooves); however, I don't think that Diana would have recommend that Delphine carry a gun for which the manufacturer issued a massive recall. If anyone has any further information, please let me know; otherwise, for fictional purposes, I'm letting Delphine keep the Sig. *g*_


End file.
